


Stand and watch it burn

by thewindupbird



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-15
Updated: 2012-09-15
Packaged: 2017-11-14 07:00:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/512581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewindupbird/pseuds/thewindupbird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christine sings his opera, and the Opera Ghost has a proposal to make - however Erik has not realised that they are not yet past the point of no return.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stand and watch it burn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nikki - who will hold my hand through Phantom](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Nikki+-+who+will+hold+my+hand+through+Phantom), [and who loves me even though this isn't the proper ship](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=and+who+loves+me+even+though+this+isn%27t+the+proper+ship).



She looked so beautiful, Erik thought, unable to quite catch his breath. And for a moment anger flared up in him, raced down his arms like pain because all he could hear was his heart thudding loudly in his ears, and he wanted this to be perfect. He wanted to _hear_ her, singing his words. _His_ opera.

 

He pulled in a few long, slow breaths, his eyes fixed on her. He could still feel the man behind him dying in his hands, dying under the simple force of his own fingers, his own arms and it was _his_ fault that he was still struggling to master himself now, in this moment that he could feel, that he _knew_ would change everything.

 

She was so beautiful, she was so alive, and he’d written this for her, all of it. Of course she mastered it. Of course she would. Of course. He was on the stage now, eyes and ears only for her. He forgot the audience.

 

He still hadn’t gotten a grip on himself. His heart was still pounding so fast he wondered if it might kill him. The hooded cloak kept her out of his vision, but he could hear her, somehow, everything, under the music - or over it. Her shoes on the floor, and the breaths she took, oh Christine.

 

He jumped when she touched him, his shoulders - somehow not expecting it in spite of seeing the opera so many times, from up in the rafters, up in box 5 - her hands, so small, her voice ringing in his ears, vibrating in his bones. He ached for it, for her - singing his words, and she felt them. She felt everything she sang - he had taught her well, yes. His Christine. His angel of music.

 

When he raised his hands, unrehearsed, waiting for hers, hoping desperately for hers, they shook, and he hadn’t even time to curse himself for it because her fingers entwined with his, so warm against him, and fragile - hollow bird-bones in her fingers, her wrists. She pressed against his back for a moment, and everything about her was hollow, just like he was - but they could make each other whole. They could fill each other up, oh God, yes.

 

He clung to her, and she touched him without fear, and he shut his eyes under the dark hood and just felt her, just listened. This was not the Christine she was, but it was the Christine she _could_ be. Bold, all for him loving only him, desperate only for him. Needing _him._

 

Their voices matched perfectly and everything, everything aside from the quaking in his limbs that would not stop, was going so _well_ and yet--

 

And yet he could see the change in her eyes, in the set of her mouth when she realised that she was not singing to Ubaldo Piangi no-- and he could see the confusion, wondering ‘when--?’ wondering ‘how long--?’

 

She pushed the hood from his face too quickly - he’d just begun to register that change in her eyes which changed again to anger? No… but something close.

 

 _Christine_.

 

He backed away from her, hand up for barely a moment, shielding his masked face from the audience -- so silent now: Stand in front of an audience and you could make them believe anything was a lie, that anything was true, and that anything could be possible.

 

And then turned back to her, he slipped the gold ring from his smallest finger and gave it to her, and she took it in her own hands, and there were tears burning his eyes… and when she looked at him, something in him shattered and broke, even before she wrenched the mask from his face. Someone somewhere screamed.

 

He had only to catch hold of her fragile bird-wrist and disappear - he knew the opera house and it’s tricks, and its secrets better than the whole staff combined. And so he whisked her away, and he put her in that wedding dress, and yet… there was a part of him, somewhere, buried deep, deep in the glowing embers of his heart, so far down that it was still quite black, that knew… that knew he would never have her, his Christine.

 

_Christine…_

_Past the point of no return, the final threshold_

_A bridge is crossed, so stand and watch it burn_

_We’ve passed the point of no return_

 


End file.
